Artie the Barbarian
by LadyNRA
Summary: Artie ends up participating in a grand adventure against his will.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Artie the Barbarian

**Author: **LadyNRA

**Rating: **PG-13

**Spoilers: **None that I can think of

**Characters: **Artie

**Genre: **Action/Adventure with a dash of humor tossed in

**Disclaimer: **The producers and Syfy may own it but I'm taking the time to play with the characters (especially Artie as always) for a little while.

**Summary: **Artie ends up participating in a grand adventure against his will

**Author's Note: **This started out as a joking statement in an email to Kritckow and she said (to paraphrase), oh yeah, I can envision that one little scene so why don't you do something about bringing the idea to life. She was right of course. It came together and was completed in three days. Many thanks to my beta reader who makes revision process almost painless (whew!)

**ARTIE THE BARBARIAN**

by LadyNRA

Walking through the portal was his first mistake. His second was not walking back through it. Oh it was true that the shimmering window made the curling hairs on the back of his head stand straight out, bristling with apprehension even before he was consciously aware of the first tingles of fear. Only problem was that the darn thing had materialized _inside_ the Warehouse, which meant that he had to do _something_. He couldn't just stand back and admire the beauty of the swirling doorway into God knew where without investigating.

Well acquainted with virtually all of the less obscure artifacts neatly arranged on the shelves, he wracked his brilliant mind for a list of items that would produce this kind of reaction. He couldn't think of a single one. Naturally that meant one of two things. He'd either forgotten about this particular artifact or it was ancient and obscure, not something listed as dangerous or not noted as possessing properties at all. That latter issue could cause problems at any given moment. If this event was artifact induced, as he strongly suspected it had to be, it meant the artifact may not have been studied or had intentionally kept its true purpose hidden, triggered now for some unexplained and unanticipated reason.

Artie blew out a long deep breath and rubbed his goatee in deep thought, the skritch skritch of it echoing in the open spaces. The puzzle of this whole thing perplexed him enough to keep him standing before the dancing lights for longer than was prudent. What was more imprudent was taking his first steps toward it. True, those steps were hesitant and wary. Equally true was that his mind was furiously going through his mental catalog of whatever information he might have missed as well a lengthy battle tested list of "what NOT to do" warnings. In retrospect, those listed items should have hollered at him to stand still and weigh every option before proceeding.

There was one reason Artie had remained in Warehouse 13 when most other agents had either died or run screaming into the hills. That reason was a deep unquenchable curiosity, a thirst for knowledge, a hunger for solving the mysteries of countless artifacts both stored in the facility or still out there waiting to be collected. Stupid curiosity, being what it was, urged him to take a closer look, and so he did.

Instantly, he regretted it. He felt something tug at his shirt, not like stiff boney fingers of death, but rather like an all encompassing magnetic pull, his body no longer flesh and blood but another magnet, opposite poles facing each other, and his whole body was drawn forward.

Stiffening spine and knees, Artie tried to lean away from it. Nothing happened aside from an increase in his forward momentum. Ancient Converses slid on the polished concrete floor. His glasses flew off, soaring into the opening. He flailed his arms, which for some reason were slightly more mobile than the rest of him, but not enough to grab anything to halt his forward progress.

A strange noise cut through his growing panic. Rattling, chattering, nails on a blackboard. Through blurred vision, he saw something vibrating on a shelf near the opening. At first, he wasn't certain what it was, but then he got closer and the image was more defined. A helm, ancient and coppery colored, twin metallic wings fixed over the ear guards, was rocking, chattering, bumping, and sliding…toward him and toward the opening.

When his head and chest went over his center of gravity, Artie feared he'd smash his face onto the hard surface below him. He started to raise his hands for protection. His body kept leaning forward, feet dragging behind him. Closer to the portal now…frighteningly so. He could have touched it had he not been paralyzed by terror. He had time for one word, only one, before his head entered the swirling lights.

"Myka!"


	2. Chapter 2

**ooooooooooooo**

**CHAPTER 2**

**ooooooooooooo**

Disorientation was the first sensation Artie experienced as he opened his eyes. He had a vague memory of sailing through the air and landing hard on his hands. Instinct and years of earlier training kicked in. He tucked his head in and rolled with the impact so that his injuries were minimal. But his body was older now and far less fit.

Once his mind cleared, he felt the expected aches and pains. He drew a firm breath, using the movement to test for broken ribs. Nothing. His exhalation was one of relief, at least over small favors. A quick inventory told him all his other parts seemed to be in relatively good working order. All except his eyes of course, which gave him nothing but fuzzy images in the background. He blinked several times, trying to bring things back into focus, waiting on his eyes to adjust as they always did during those times he took the glasses off for more than a few minutes.

Large brown eyes scanned the tall, pale yellow grass beneath him. A metallic glint caught his attention. Hope rose in his heart. Without standing up, he leaned toward it, one wide thick-fingered hand sliding through the stalks of grass to grab the object. His glasses, he noted with joy, relieved to find they were intact, the lenses unbroken. Quickly, he slid them on and looked around him.

Of course, the Warehouse was no longer there. He'd surmised that immediately upon impact with the soft ground and scratchy foliage. Somewhere nearby, odd sounds, like noisy breakers crashing on rocks, mixed with the hiss of airbrakes deploying, drifted toward him.

Above, a nearly cloudless blue sky smiled down on his good fortune at having survived the trip. Artie snorted. Bad fortune was how he would have labeled it although he supposed he did have to thank the powers that be for allowing him to arrive without broken bones or worse.

The next thing he did was to half turn and look over his shoulder. As expected, he saw nothing but the same field and forest in the distance.

"Damn," he muttered, "no portal." He bent over, placing his hands on his thighs, and shook his head. "Of course," he amended. "What else is new?"

The projectile that landed squarely between his spread feet forced him to bolt upright. He glanced down instantly for a better look, having to bend at the waist to get a better look, and saw fletching on a narrow straight stick.

"An arrow?" he said, shocked as he backed away from the thing, instantly scanning the horizon for the archer. He didn't have long to wait. His ears clued him in before his eyes did. A racket was building, the sounds of grunts and screams and cries of pain were building to clearly audible level. Those had been the strange sounds that had whispered to him as he was taking physical inventory but could not be identified.

His confusion over the noises or the identity of the archer didn't last long. Just over the rise of a small hill, several bodies came barreling toward him, voices shrieking in anger, helmets, swords and shields reflecting sunlight as they bore down on another group, equally armed, who ran from them.

All were bearded with wild hair flowing from beneath their headgear. All wore similar garb with few distinctions, mostly changes in the colors of pennants attached to helmets or the occasional spear. Other than that, it was impossible to tell them one from another. All wore assorted furs over short leather shirts, tucked into equally short leather breechcloths. Gauntlets graced many of the arms of these warriors as did assorted shin guards. Chain mail, dull but in good repair, covered many of the shirts, dangling over wide dark belts with pewter buckles much the same color as the furs. Dark scabbards swung at their sides no longer weighted down by the swords which were gripped in their meaty palms.

They charged, they yelled, they bellowed and roared. Blood flew, screams ripped through the air. Some dodged, rolled, and rose, others died where they stood. Weapons flashed and clanged, drawing blood or parrying attacks. Arrows were notched and sent into fighters on the perimeter where the archer could be more certain of his target. Wild berserker eyes scanned for enemies or for a better place to make a defensive stand. The mass of warriors surged on, leaving heaps of previously living breathing bodies in their wake.

And they were charging down on Artie. A few more arrows sailed toward him so did what any smart man would do in his situation, he turned tail and ran for the safety of the forest.

Several warriors, realizing they were terribly outnumbered, decided Artie had the right idea and charged after him, swords still slashing, although they only hacked at the air around them as their arms pumped and their lungs gasped for breath, their grunts carried on the wind.

Artie made one hurried glance over his shoulder, noted they were about to stomp on his heels, and picked up the speed. His feet grew wings, fueled by a fountain of adrenalin. For a minute or two he thought he would actually outdistance them but two factors intervened. Both went back to his earlier physical assessment. One he was getting older and two he was no longer as fit as he once was.

"Diet," he mentally chanted as he puffed along. "Diet. For sure. If. I. Survive!"

Survival worries overrode weight-loss worries as he heard a loud thudding of booted feet behind him. His wind was giving out and he wondered if he stood a snowballs chance in hell of fighting them off or arguing his way of the situation.

The first option was out. He was sweating so heavily that a snowball in his hand would have melted long before it got to hell, and the second option was just plain ridiculous. He could tell just by listening that English wasn't their language. While it was true he spoke several languages, this wasn't one he recognized let alone spoke fluently. So reasoning with them was out.

But the testosterone coursing through him motivated his next action. He turned to face the onslaught, prepared to use what meager self-defense resources he possessed before they took him down. He'd be damned if he'd let them run a sword through his back without him even attempting to strike back.

A fist bigger than a ham hock towered over him. He brought up his own fists while judging just how high he'd have to jump in order to hit the shortest guy in the jaw. Then he wished he knew how to slam dunk a basketball because he would have needed those kinds of legs in order to reach that height.

Commonsense won out over overcharged hormones and he bent over, fully prepared to try ducking under them regardless of how embarrassing that might have appeared to spectators. But then it dawned on him. The second group of warriors was still pursing the first. He froze with indecision.

The matter was taken out of his hands. He felt his body whirled around so that he was facing where the portal had been. Powerful hands grabbed him under the armpits, lifted, and charged off with Artie dangling between the two who supported him. They carried his weight as if he were feather light for about half a mile but then started to grunt heavily with the effort and dropped him to the ground. That didn't mean they let him go, however. Instead they took to dragging him along with them during those minutes when he couldn't move his legs fast enough to keep up. He lost his first sneaker soon after he was back on solid ground but they wouldn't stop for him to retrieve it. The second sneaker slid off during another leg of the journey while being dragged like a sack of flour.

Fortunately, Artie's socks were thick old-fashioned brown and white argyles which didn't shred under the assault of being hauled over the ground. While the socks held up reasonably well, his feet were still relatively unprotected and each little rock or chip of wood elicited a mild curse or grunt of pain. But he kept running when he wasn't being physically propelled along. Clearly, whoever these men were, they weren't interested in slaughtering him then and there and for that Artie had to be grateful.

The logical part of his mind struggled to memorize mundane landmarks in hopes of retracing his steps but that one tall skinny tree looked like every other tall skinny tree. That was pretty much all there was to see, particularly after they entered the forest.

Behind them, their pursuers had stopped and stared at the wall of trees as if afraid to approach it. They stood in a line, just watching. Silent. Stern. Angry. Cheated of their quarry, at least momentarily.

The warrior group still holding Artie's biceps stared right back, for all of ten seconds. As if on cue, they quietly turned and marched farther into the damp green canopy.

When they reached a small clearing, they promptly lit a fire, dragged over several large logs to sit on and broke out small packets of dried meat, berries, hard bread and lumps of very ripe, distinctly odoriferous cheese. Artie, who had been pushed down between two of the burliest warriors, wrinkled his nose and eyed the food suspiciously. It looked nasty as far as he was concerned but evidently his stomach wasn't as picky. It growled, loudly enough for the men flanking him to hear it and make joking comments.

After what was presumably a round of good natured gibes at the portly little man in their midst, they all broke off bits of their meal, collected it and offered it to him on a broad flat leaf gathered during the time they spent making fire and seating.

Sniffing it at again, Artie decided that no matter how bad the food may have looked or smelled, he definitely didn't want to offend men big enough to wrestle bull elephants…and win. He sampled first the meat which was gamey but edible. At that moment, he was glad for a good report from the dentist because the stuff required some serious chewing. The berries were tart but not terribly so, the bread flavorful and chewy albeit almost as tough as the meat and the cheese was surprisingly sweet and nutty in flavor. Hungry as he was after burning so much energy, he devoured it all quickly, earning a few heavy-handed whacks on the shoulder that almost sent him flying off his log.

He gave them a half smile and a bob of his head which he fervently hoped wasn't some sign of aggression. When they returned the smile and nodded without pounding his bones into the ground before-hand, he figured it was a universal gesture and relaxed.

The most muscular of the men finally stood up, walked over to their guest and crouched down so that he and Artie were eye to eye. More or less. The guy was probably still taller but was content with staying as he was.

He ground out some words in a totally unfamiliar language, sounding more like a bull with a belly ache than a human being. Artie could only shrug. Or shake his head. He finally stated softly, so as not to upset anyone, "I don't understand anything you've just said."

The stranger cocked his head to the side, listening intently, and spoke some more. Artie replied. "Nope, not any better. Sorry."

Mister Bodybuilder turned blazing gold eyes on him, trying to drive his words home with a hard gaze but that didn't work either. Finally, one-handed, he tapped his chest and growled, "Donjonik", then he whacked Artie in the chest with the back of the same hand. All that managed to do was knock the much smaller man off his perch, backward, arms and legs pin-wheeling for balance.

Laughing like a herd of braying donkeys, they snagged Artie from below the stump where only his feet still showed, and effortlessly righted him. As soon as they'd gotten him seated again, Artie rubbed his bruised chest and stifled a groan. It didn't matter. The others knew he was hurting from what they considered a love-tap, and his weakness made them guffaw louder than before.

As soon as the burning stopped, Artie tapped his own chest and stated "Artie. Artie Nielsen."

As if he'd just told them a great joke, several of men, slapped their knees and brayed to the heavens. "Artie Nielsen, Artie Nielsen," they repeated several times, pointing at him with fingers longer than jumbo bratwurst links.

It was a struggle for Artie to keep the frown off his face but somehow he managed. If there was one thing he didn't want to do, it was piss off these crazy men. He may not have been sure of their sanity but he was most assuredly aware of their strength and for that reason alone, he purposefully rearranged his features in order to present a smiling façade.

Swollen animal bladders with narrow necks were passed around to quench the thirst they'd worked up over laughing at the little stranger. They drank heartily and finally passed one to him with hand gestures indicating he should partake of it. Once again, he took a surreptitious sniff but smelled nothing beyond a slightly pungent aroma.

Originally intending to take a tiny sip, he tilted the bladder back and allowed a few tiny drops to land on his tongue. Just as the full experience of the liquid began to barrage his sense of taste, someone next to him, he wasn't sure who, upended it fully and a much larger volume of fluid coursed down his throat.

Artie sat immobile for a split second as the full effect hit him. His eyes crossed, then watered, his throat screamed as flames ripped down to his belly, hacked and slashed through his intestines and exploded out the soles of his feet. He swayed. The sky whirled around his head. His stomach lurched, threatening to erupt over every unfortunate spectator within easy reach. Gagging and retching he lurched to his feet, swayed back and forth like a metronome, and unceremoniously pitched forward.

Laughing uproariously, two muscle-bound warriors caught him as his knees buckled. They tried to stand him up again but his legs, wobbly like a newborn foals, just wouldn't cooperate. It was absurd. He kept trying to straighten up but couldn't manage it. He looked at his stalwart companions through eyes that refused to focus. The faces before him distorted as if they were reflected in circus fun house mirrors. Suddenly he thought it was all very funny and with a loud laugh, he grinned hugely at all the smiling faces around him. From a great distance, he heard their joking responses and he suddenly felt as if it were all very funny even though he couldn't understand a word of it. That made him giggle harder. Before long he was laughing so hard that he felt like hurling again. Still propped up by his stalwart companions he tried to take a few steps but nothing was cooperating. Arms wrapped around his stomach he fought for breath as the bellows of human columns flanking him rang in his ears like the bells of Notre Dame.

And then he blacked out.


	3. Chapter 3

**ooooooooooooo**

**CHAPTER 3**

**ooooooooooooo**

There was a ball of pain in the core of his being. That was the first piece of information Artie got as he groped toward consciousness. His belly was pitching and rolling, heaving like a row boat on hurricane driven waves. His head kept bumping against something furry but the abysmal pain wasn't from that, it just 'was'. Everywhere. Shrieking through every neuron. A million nuclear blasts exploding at once, non-stop.

He tried to open his eyes but when he finally forced his eyelids apart, they were unfocused. The first truly coherent thought he had was to bemoan the loss of his glasses…again. The second thought was that he needed to free his tongue from where it had stuck to the roof of his mouth. That accomplished he tried to lick his lips but his mouth was so dry that critters surviving in the Sahara wouldn't have stood a chance of finding moisture in there. He remembered that feeling though it had been ages since he'd experienced it. Dehydration. The end result of celebrating way too much the night before. But there was one huge difference this time. The accompanying headache was the monster of all hangovers. Godzilla and The Giant Behemoth combined.

Somehow, from somewhere deep in his chest, he managed a piteous moan. The back and forth bumping of his head ceased and voices broke through to the muddled mess that used to be his gray matter. He felt his feet touch the ground, as his torso slid over something extraordinarily scratchy. His thin shirt did nothing to protect his skin. Then he was dumped, more or less unceremoniously, onto a surface that was soft and yielding.

"Ow!" he protested weakly, surprised to hear his voice, scratchy and strained, protesting the abuse to his still-pounding head.

Noxious smells, unwashed bodies, poorly tanned hides, raw meat and other odors unknown and unnamed, barraged his nostrils, not only adding to his hangover but curdling whatever was left in his stomach.

One unsteady hand rose to run trembling fingers through silvering brown curls. He felt something tickling the back of that hand, managed to pry his eyelids open, and found a hand dangling his glasses within easy reach.

He tried to take them. He really did. But he kept missing and he wouldn't have minded grabbing the constantly swaying dirt-stained paw if he thought he stood any chance of succeeding. Finally, the broken nailed fingers dropped the glasses onto his chest. Somehow he fumbled them on, only poking himself once in the eye, which he considered a blessing considering how bad he felt.

Groaning pitifully, he rolled over onto his side, trying to prop himself up but it was too much of an effort. His muscles went lax and he toppled back over, closed his eyes and, presumably, fell asleep although he couldn't have said for how long.

Voices woke him, some laughing, some shouting, some definitely chiding, and among them were higher pitched feminine sounds. "Women?" he wondered as he collected his thoughts. He remembered running, flagging behind, being dragged, going airborne, breathing so hard he thought he'd puke (but he didn't), eating something that looked like it would make him puke (but it didn't), drinking something that turned his insides to molten lava that, ironically, also made him want to puke. He could only vaguely remember events beyond that point although non-stop pain figured prominently in those recollections.

When a slender soot-smudged hand handed him a flask he cringed and turned away. She persisted and he tried to push the flask away but she was having none of it. She was a persistent little she-devil, he gave her that, because she grabbed his nose and as he gasped for breath, she poured a prodigious quantity of the foul tasting brew down his throat. Laughter exploded around him as he gagged and coughed. Most of it he spit out but enough found its intended destination.

To Artie's amazement, his headache began to clear within a few minutes and the nausea started to abate with it. Soon, he was sitting up and fit enough to observe his surroundings. He had been placed on a bundle of smelly furs, inside a large rough-hewn structure that was clearly put together piece-meal. Other piles of furs were lying around, mostly unoccupied, although one couple was having a grand old time in a corner where the least amount of light reached them. He heard giggles and lusty grunts, occasional moans of pleasure and part of him marveled that these people had no sense of shame. But then he recalled that many cultures living together like this had different moral viewpoints of right and wrong.

He tried to stand, flopped down and gave up. One of the enormous men stuck out a hand and pulled him upright as if he were merely a child. The sudden motion made him dizzy but at least he didn't fall, at least not until that same hand smacked him on the back in congratulations. He nearly toppled over as he had earlier but miraculously he didn't.

A smaller group of warriors beckoned him over to the fire and patted a spot, shifting over to make room for him. Cautiously he settled down onto fur covered pillows between the two enormous and sweaty bodies. They handed him a wooden platter with fresh cooked game, berries, and chunks of fruit that looked like kiwi although he reasoned that they couldn't be. The climate wasn't suited to it.

Despite all that had happened to him, he discovered he was starving and desperately thirsty. A relatively plain, auburn haired woman, apparently the same age as the men, knelt between him and the fire, and offered up a flagon of something. After being internally boiled by one drink, and poisoned by the next, he was loathe to test this one. Clearly the others were still swilling the first noxious brew because they were swaying as if very, very drunk. Artie looked at it as she brought it closer to his lips. He tightened those lips in rebellion. She drew closer, coaxing with her hands and a surprisingly healthy smile. He leaned away. She frowned. He frowned back…harder.

The woman looked down at the large metal mug, said something in their guttural gibberish, and got an answer that was apparently pretty funny because she smirked and said something to him in an obviously teasing tone. The males nearby joined in.

"Oh my God," Artie moaned softly, "Only here a short time and already they're picking on me."

Rather than play games with him, the woman put the mug to her full lips and took a long slow swallow, licking her lips afterward in a way that had his mind wandering, even if her overall appearance didn't appeal to him. Heck, she was probably taller than him by at least eight inches and an unwashed body was still an unwashed body. He hadn't been with a woman in longer than he could remember but nevertheless he still wasn't _that_ desperate.

As if sensing those thoughts, the woman grabbed him in a viselike grip and tugging him toward her. She playfully sucked and nibbled on his lower lip before pulling him into a heady embrace that sent his pulse racing even as his mind was writhing with distaste. His thoughts weren't the only thing writhing. His whole body was doing just that as he tried to pull free of her grasp. He'd almost succeeded too but she got a firmer hold on him. This untamed, unwashed, unashamed barbarian deepening the kiss, applying so much pressure she was able to force his mouth open again. And in went the tongue.

"No, no, no!" his mind shrieked. He threw all of his weight backward to get away from her. Stupid move, he realized a second later. All it did was pull her down on top of him, smothering himself with a bosom so ample that most of his face got covered. She clearly thought this was a great idea, pulling open her furs to grant him better access. He thought it was a horrible idea but couldn't do anything about it. Heck, he couldn't even talk from lack of air. So he decided to do what any healthy male of his species did when not interested. He played dead.

The gales of laughter actually managed to increase in volume. "Probably joking over the fact that she killed me," he thought but he stayed limp. By that point it really was all he could do because his oxygen starved lungs burned and his head grew fuzzy. A familiar pounding was starting in again.

Just as he thought he was a goner and what an embarrassing epitaph it would make if Pete Lattimer found out about it, a harsh male voice pierced the air and the woman flew toward the ceiling. Not literally of course, she had no wings and smelled more like a beast of burden than any bird, but up she went anyway.

Behind her, the same warrior who had carried him most of the way, drew her off him like she was a featherweight. Hissing and spitting like an infuriated cougar, she tried to swipe at him with broken nails but he was quicker. He brought her around, planted a big sloppy kiss on her lips, groped those Dolly Parton sized breasts with an enormous paw and waited until she surrendered to him. Then, hand in hand, the couple went to the vacated spot in the dark corner. In no time at all, lustful howls of pleasure were emanating from under the furs.

Pretending not to notice any of this Artie stared at his feet. His shoulder got lightly cuffed and when his finally raised his eyes, he saw another cup was being offered to him, this time by the warrior who'd tapped him. He took it, sniffed and wisely took a tiny sip. Water, he discovered, pure and simple. Grateful, he downed the large cup in five or six gulps, coughing as some of it slid down the wrong way in his haste to finish it.

By the time he had finished the water and another cupful after that, the amorous duo were already finished and the woman was going about her business.

The warrior on the furs rose, threw a huge smile at the men around him, adjusted his breechcloth, and walked by Artie. Before he passed, he grabbed a fistful of Artie's shirt, yanking upward. Nielsen went up with the shirt but not before little buttons went popping everywhere. Frightened, Artie got his legs under him so fast that he saved himself from being strangled by his own clothing although once up he realized he was now going to have to walk around with the shirt open because none of the buttons survived.

"Damn," he swore softly, looking down at the exposed white skin of his stomach. "I liked this shirt!"

The enormous man clearly didn't care. He propelled Artie out of the crude longhouse and toward a smaller hut. He gestured for Nielsen to enter and when Artie did so, he found several men waiting for him. A small fire in the center gave off a weak light and pungent smoke. They indicated he should sit and he complied simply because he was afraid of what they'd do to him if he didn't. If playful blows could bruise and break, he dreaded finding out what angry punches could do. Fear rose in him. This meeting was going to be about him, he was sure of it, and absently, he wondered if a tryst with the barbarian bimbo would have been worth delaying the inevitable.

No, definitely _not_, he decided and turned his attention to the matter at hand.

From behind one man, a tablet of wood was drawn forth. It was opened like a map, folding outward into a scroll like affair. Upon its surface, there were pictures or paintings. This scroll was placed before him on his lap. He saw scenes of village life, of love and war, of hopes and dreams. The pictographic history of a people. When he flipped it over he noticed more such scenes.

One thing it did tell him. This little village with its one main cobbled together longhouse and smaller huts was just as he'd suspected, a temporary camp. There had been no sign of the elderly or of children. He realized that these people might have sought battle to end their lives before they became sick and feeble but surely children would have been present in normal village life and he had neither seen nor heard them.

One long blunt finger swung into view, pointing at a particular image. He saw it, studied it, and didn't like what he saw. Not one bit. The artwork, though somewhat crude, was still quite clear. There was an image of many men in pitched battle, both sides separated only by the colors of their banners, pennants such as he'd seen earlier in the day.

The man beside him pointed at one side of combatants and pointed at those assembled in the room. Artie nodded his understanding. Then sweat broke out on his brow and began to trickle out down his temple, because, in the middle of the fiercely battling warriors was a creature right out of nightmares, black and ominous, serpent like in form and face. Humpbacked. Flames shooting from skeletal fingers rather than from its mouth.

But that wasn't precisely what evoked such a sense of dread in him. In the center of that drawing was another person, very short and stocky in comparison to the other warriors. He wore a familiar helmet over curly locks and bore a broadsword in his right fist.

Vigorously shaking his head, he tried to negate the message of the paintings with wild gesticulations.

"Not me, uh-uh, no way!" he said, realizing that he sounded more like Claudia than himself.

The same warrior producing the wood tablets once more reached behind him and solemnly brought another item forward.

Artie moaned with fear, not caring who heard. It was the helmet from the Warehouse, wings and all. No doubt about it. He'd wondered if it had been dragged into the portal but with everything going on after he'd arrived, and after not finding it close by, he'd assumed the doorway had closed just after he'd gotten yanked in. Clearly that wasn't the case. They must have scooped it up as they'd raced toward him.

"Not good, definitely _not_ good!" he intoned, voicing his fears aloud.

The helmet was put before him. When he didn't immediately pick it up, they scowled at him. A gigantic fist clenched and the owner of that leg 'o lamb turned glittering, impatient eyes on him. Artie stared at the fist. If a light pat could send him flying, a blow would surely cripple or kill him. He didn't doubt that for a moment.

Sighing raggedly, he picked up the heavy metal item in shaking hands and gazed at it. The guy with the scary eyes said something and the man seated to his right nudged him in the ribs. The action jostled him so hard he almost dropped the helmet but something told him disrespecting this artifact would earn him a world of hurt. Somehow he hung on it.

Hammer-Elbow made motions with his hands. Those actions said, "Put the damn thing on already."

Hands twitching with apprehension, Artie carefully donned the helmet and waited for the physical interaction with his scalp to trigger some response. It almost always worked that way with these things. He sensed nothing aside from a cool tingling around his skull where the cold metal rested. For a second he assumed the blasted thing was just a simple ancient helmet more suited for a museum than the Warehouse. He relaxed. He smiled. He chuckled. Nothing.

"Our little sorcerer thinks something is funny!" A voice said.

The man to Artie's left grunted. "Let him enjoy his little joke, whatever it is. He won't be laughing when he battles Gerza-Set."

Startled Artie looked around the group. "What did you say?" he asked stupidly and wished he could withdraw the question.

What came out of his mouth sounded exactly like the gibberish they were spouting.

"Ah, so the sorcerer finally deigns to speak to us in our own language," his initial savoir, Donjonik, said chidingly.

"It's the helmet," Artie began explaining. "The energies within the metal must convert…" He let the last word trail off. He doubted they'd understand Warehouse vernacular. "Um, the magical properties of this helmet allow me to somehow understand you."

"Ah, a magic helmet!" Donjonik exclaimed. "See Brogan, I told you there was something special about it." To the others he yelled, "I told you the prophecy is coming true. I knew it the minute I saw our fat friend here."

Turning to Artie, he planted one sausage-long finger on the tablet, and proclaimed, "You were sent by Almesrhi to help us win our war against our enemies."

"Why?" Artie asked then bit his lip.

"Are you stupid, little man? Someone has to kill Gerza-Set so that our enemies will no longer be protected by him."

"Surely you can kill this Gerza-Set yourself. I've seen you fight. You are brave fighters. As big as they are."

"Ah but not as numerous," another warrior explained. "They outnumber us at least five to one. And as long as that demon leads them, we are powerless to stand before them for long."

"So get other villagers together and increase the size of your army," suggested Artie, clearly loathed to think about the alternative…a battle to the death between him and a 'demon' from the nine hells or whatever it was they called their place of horror and torment.

"Gerza-Set and his minions have devastated our lands, scattered our people. The old ones and children too young to fight are hidden for now but eventually they will be discovered. They are only safe because we keep moving, always one step ahead of Gerza's people."

The looks of abject sadness on the faces of these men scared Artie more than their anger did. It told him exactly what his foe was like. Suddenly, he didn't need that awful drink to turn his insides to gelatin.

"Look, I'm not who you think I am. At home, where I come from, our weapons are different, you see? And the people, um, well, most of 'em aren't quite as…large…as you. I could hold my own against one or two guys…" he held up his fists which looked pathetically tiny compared to theirs, "…with these, but I'm not…not…" he let the thought trail off with a shrug.

"That is because you aren't ready for the fight yet. You have the Helm of Bect. Now it is time for Fenton's sword." He pulled a bundle onto his lap. It was large and heavy, obscured by a suede covering, bound by rough twine. The man opened the bundle slowly, reverently, revealing a longsword, the hilt generous enough for two of their hands or three of Artie's. A huge ruby, worth enough to buy Trump Towers, glittered brightly on the pommel, its inner light seemingly dancing with anticipation.

"You see," Donjonik said, pointing, "all this is part of the prophecy. You are the one, like it or not. Our prophets have said you will battle Gerza-Set and give us victory." He said it as if reciting something he'd heard his whole life.

"I'm telling you, I'm not destined for anything other than holing up in a big metal building full of treasures the world can't have," Artie protested

"Bah! Your greedy king doesn't need you nearly as much as we do!" he bellowed.

"I'm not the one you want, I assure you!"

"Let the sword decide," its handler stated to everyone present. "You all know the legend. No one can pull the sword from the scabbard 'cept it be the one destined to wield it."

Hands splayed before him, Artie stated weakly, "But you don't understand—"

Brows over Neanderthal ridges thumped into each other. "Take. The. Sword…Now!"

Artie complied, what else could he do?

Fingers that had never quite ceased twitching wrapped around the leather grip. He gulped audibly. He prayed fervently to the God he was raised to believe in and to at least a dozen others he'd heard about to save him from this fate.

"Please, don't. Please, please, please," he whispered.

And then he pulled.

The result was worthy of a curse. He chose the great grandpappy of them all, the one almost as old as the act itself, and he let it fly. The sword slid free of the scabbard before the word had died on his lips.

"That's what the woman was for," one of them snickered and others joined in.

Ignoring them, Donjonik asserted, "See, as I said, you are the chosen bearer of the sword."

"When is this all supposed to happen?" Artie inquired, brown orbs still locked on the single red one.

"Soon, I expect. We can't leave the forest without them coming for us."

That caught Artie's attention, the question he'd meant to ask earlier but had been too distracted to think about. "Why didn't they follow us into the forest in the first place? Obviously they know you're in here, and they were so close to us. Why stop?"

Brogan's shrug was played out by him spreading his hands wide. His reach was expansive enough to easily pelt the two men on either side of him but they didn't flinch. "They think this land is cursed. I'm not about to persuade them otherwise, would you?"

"No-no-no, you're right." He looked at the leader, or rather the man he presumed was the leader. "Does your prophecy say how 'soon' is soon?"

Donjonik's eyes grew flinty. He stood. Artie and the others rose with him as if controlled by him. "As soon as you can carry that sword into battle."

Artie sighed loudly. 'Reprieve,' his mind crowed. To the others he stated, boldly. "For you information, I don't know the first thing about sword-fighting. I told you that before. I'd be dead in a heartbeat, less than a heartbeat, if I went against that thing now. And do you know how long it'd take me to become proficient at it?"

"The same span of time," Brogan answered with assurance. Seeing Artie's confused expression, he answered, "A heartbeat."

Right eyebrow trying to kiss his hairline, Artie croaked, "What are you saying? That I'm just to get in there without experience and let nature take its course? This helmet may possess the gift of giving wisdom to the wearer but it's not going to teach me how to—"

In that instant Donjonik's blade flashed out of his scabbard straight toward Artie's neck. This was no game, there was no restraint. The others didn't even have time to duck out of the way. But it never reached its mark because another blade was already there. The Sword of Fenton had somehow, inexplicably blocked the blow.

The warrior pulled his lips back in a smile. "Does that answer your question?"

Artie hadn't moved more than his arm. It had happened so fast he wasn't even sure exactly what had happened. Or how. He'd seen the action in slow motion. His brain, firing on all cylinders, energized neurons to his arm muscles and the sword had gone where he wanted it. No planning necessary. No motion from the blade itself. No whispered voices telling him what to do. It just happened.

Resheathing his sword, Donjonik wordlessly exited the hut and the others followed, leaving Artie to stare down at his hands still gripping the sword. Head hanging in defeat, he followed the others.


	4. Chapter 4

**ooooooooooooo**

**CHAPTER 4**

**oooooooooooooo**

Horrible dreams of battle, decapitation and devouring flames plagued Artie but they held him so tight in their grasp that he couldn't wake up. When he finally awoke, he found himself sprawled on his furs, a woman's hand resting across his bare chest, her hand lightly touching his upper arm, her head nestled into his shoulder. He was sure she wasn't the same one as before and he was equally certain that nothing had 'happened'; however, space in the long house was at a premium and he presumed she settled there just so she'd have a soft place to rest. Around him, others were stirring from similar groupings, disentangling arms and legs, yawning and shivering in the slightly chilled air.

The first thing the women did was start rekindle flames and set up cook-pots. The scent of bread wafted in from small round ovens outside. The men were a different story. They sat around sharpening tools or their weapons, polishing their simple armor, repairing damage to their chainmail.

The same woman who had curled up against for warmth in the middle of the night brought him a light meal, similar to what they ate the previous evening. She also brought him a cup of water which she shared with him, along with the meal itself.

She tried to converse briefly with him but was unsuccessful.

As conversations started up with greater intensity, Artie donned the helmet. His companion gave him an odd look and in the sweetest voice, said, "That's not necessary in here."

"I know but I need it to understand you," he explained gently.

"Ah, so you need magic to understand us?" She tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder. It was limp and far from clean. She also looked much younger than many of the others in the longhouse.

"In a manner of speaking, yes." Artie ran his fingers over his cheeks which were already getting short bristles on them. He used his fingertips to smooth out his neatly trimmed goatee and the jumble of curls that he knew would be awry after all that had happened in the past twenty four hours. "In my…city, we call the helmet and the sword "artifacts". In fact, this is what we'd refer to as a bifurcated artifact. They need to be in close proximity to function properly. My people learn how to use them. We are like scientists…" he paused realizing the word 'scientists' came out as 'sorcerers'."

She shrank back slightly, not from him but from the word itself. Her eyes glazed over at the concept of magic and magic users. Her life had been too short and too simple to associate with such things.

"You will save us with your magic," she said, a statement rather than a question. "I believe that even though I don't know how it will happen. The men will leave soon and you will be with them. May our gods favor you with success."

That said, she leaned closer and gently, softly kissed his lips. Unlike the previous evening, he returned it, holding her face within his hands, wondering if this would be the last time he would ever enjoy a kiss from anyone.

The young woman was right. They called for him to join them in preparations for battle. Accoutrements came out and their wives or girlfriends assisted them in dressing. This seemed more of a ritual than a necessity but neither male nor female protested the routine.

The woman who had shared his bed returned with a large bundle and put it by his feet. In it, he found a leather short shirt, breechcloth, belt, boots, in other words similar garb to what all the other men wore. There was also light armor to protect his limbs and a chainmail shirt that would barely reach his thighs. On the other men, it wouldn't have covered the belt. Without asking permission, she reached for his shirt.

He put his hands up in supplication. "I can do it myself, really."

"It is tradition," she stated simply, her honest, open face telling him this was true. "It reminds our men that someone is waiting for them after the battle, that there is something to live for other than the fight itself."

Spreading his arms out and away from his sides, he gave her silent permission to proceed. She may have been young but she was no stranger to the routine and had him garbed and armored in no time at all.

The weight of the chainmail was oppressive. It looked light and finely made but was incredibly heavy. He was glad for the light leather shirt to protect his skin. Surprisingly, the mail moved with him, so flexible that it made little sound. As he examined this, she hung the belt with scabbard around his hips, going as far as buckling it on for him.

The final addition to these preparations was the addition of a ruby banner which she tied around the helmet. There was no need to bend over to reach it either because she, like the other women, towered over him.

He looked and felt ridiculous, dwarfed by these giants, wearing garments that were too big for him, carrying a weapon he had no right or desire to possess. Well, Donjonik would argue the former point. The fates had decreed he had the right, and though desire was lacking, the choice had been removed from him. As if sensing his reticence from the day before, no one had let him out of their sight. In fact, in retrospect, he realized the younger woman probably hadn't chosen him to keep her warm purely out of need. He suspected the arm thrown over him was more to alert her if he got up so she could warn the others.

Not that it mattered anymore. He was committed. And so as the others marched off into the forest, he moved with them, a small sapling in the midst of mighty oaks, a cringing cub in the midst of full grown grizzlies.

As they neared the perimeter of the forest, the full contingent of warriors stopped to scan the open meadow. No one remained on guard. There were no marks of their presence whatsoever, aside from the trampled grasses their skirmish left behind.

Two men, lighter than the others and presumably fleeter of foot, broke off from the main group and charged ahead. Their feet made no noise, their armor and chainmail maintained silence. As they approached the top of the hill, they crouched and observed. After a while, they signaled the others and off they went at a ground eating lope.

Burdened down by the weight of mail, armor and sword, Artie flagged behind. At first he was disgusted with himself. He was already sweating and winded. And then he figured this was a blessing. If the others got excited enough, maybe they'd keep going and forget about him entirely. Then he snorted aloud. _Fat chance that was gonna happen_, he told himself. And he was right. He was their supposed ace in the hole, their secret weapon, their 'ringer'. When he couldn't keep up, they slowed down.

Some faces reflecting anger, others concern, they watched him approach at a pace barely over a walk. Ragged breath rasped out of his lungs and he bent over trying to rest.

"You must move faster, Artie Nielsen!"

Red-faced, Artie gasped, "I'm trying. This is the best you're going to get. If you don't like it, leave me behind!"

Brogan clearly wasn't happy about the disrespectful tone Artie was using toward his leader, because he ground out, "Are you going to let this fat little man speak to you that way?"

"Peace Brogan," Donjonik murmured. "Now is not the time to cause strife. He will do what he has to do because it is his destiny, and we are along to help see to it that he is where he needs to be. If he lags behind, then we stay with him. It is that simple."

"He is a sorcerer. Why does he not use magic to make himself fleet of foot?"

Moving in front of Brogan, the warrior patted the mail on his chest hard enough to make it rattle. "We assumed he'd have much knowledge about magic. That he does not. But the items necessary for his success responded to him as was foretold. For that reason alone, we stand behind him in this. Even if we don't understand why the gods would choose someone so physically inferior for this task, I am certain he is the one we expected."

He turned to them then. "All of you, it is our job to see that this man reach the demon. We are to protect him, forfeit our lives if we must, but there will be no victory over them if we cannot get him close enough to do what he needs to." He looked at Artie with mixed emotions including determination to get the job done and fear that this little man wasn't up to the task despite what the prophecy said. But he also knew they couldn't wait to train him properly. More and more innocents were dying every day, and countless others were coming under the tyrannical rule of Gerza-Set and his followers. "Remember, we don't do this for the sorcerer, we do it for all of us, our wives, our families, our friends and for the greater good of all who hunger for freedom."

So saying, he turned and began to walk up the hill. The others followed without comment at a similar pace, Artie in the midst of them, protected until the time the fates would have need of him.

Walking made slow going of the journey but no one complained. They arrived on the top of another hill an hour later and several miles from their camp. Below them, spread out for hundreds of yards, were tents. Small ones for individual warriors on up to command tents were easily visible.

Artie took it all in. His insides were knotting up again and he was glad that his last meal had been hours ago. The rough estimate he made while standing there came to about two hundred warriors. Their party, impressive as it was, numbered no more than fifty.

While Donjonik had said the opposing force was massive, Artie reasoned that this wasn't the entire contingent. Studying battles of long ago had told him that this was actually a very small force. He presumed that the army had been spread out during its time of conquest and this group was there only to handle 'the locals'. At first he wondered if Gerza-Set would bother to handle such a menial task as slaughtering a small group of men when his own warriors could handle the job efficiently. Perhaps 'the demon' wasn't even there. A part of him hoped so but the logical part of his mind recalled the obvious facts. He'd been pulled through a portal in the Warehouse. The helmet had gone in with him. He'd acquired the second part of the artifact almost immediately after the first, which was most definitely not a coincidence is his book. Nor would the Warehouse procedural and artifact manual have disagreed with him.

To add insult to injury, he was obviously the focus of some insane prophecy requiring him to battle a force of evil. He snorted at the thought. This was worse than any Conan the Barbarian novel he had ever read as a kid. And he'd read them all, thank you very much.

Yup, no doubt about it, he was here with those artifacts to fulfill the prophecy and because of all that had happened he also had no doubt that Gerza-Set was down there waiting on him to show up.


	5. Chapter 5

**ooooooooooooo**

**CHAPTER 5**

**ooooooooooooo**

Horns blared forth from below. They'd been spotted, the horns screamed. Warriors piled out of tents, weapons already drawn. They hastily threw on armor while those more prepared began their own charge.

A second horn sounded, more insistent than the first. Any body in forward motion came to a screaming halt. All heads turned back to the command tent. They paid no mind to the approaching warriors or to the short, round man in the middle of them.

A form emerged from the large black tent in the center of the encampment. It was tall and skeletal thin, sinewy…willowy almost. It moved around the other warriors as if gliding over the ground.

Donjonik's fighters stopped and waited on terrain slightly higher than that of their enemies. No one spoke, no one moved although Artie would have sworn later that he was shivering so bad, his mail had to have been clanking from it. Before them, the black-clad, hunchbacked being strode in their direction. About twenty men fell into step behind it, fanning out to form a well ordered line.

"Insults," Brogan grumbled under his breath. "They send so few, as if we were but children to be easily slaughtered."

"No, Brogan, they send so few because they believe Gerza-Set's magic will defeat us without need for a fight. Be vigilant. If he starts hurling fire, scatter and get as far from him as you can. Regroup as soon as it is prudent to do so. Above all else, keep Artie Nielsen safe." He turned to look down at the reluctant warrior. "Brogan, Sturl, Collis and I will make sure you are where you need to be. Our hopes go with you so be strong. You don't just help us, you help everyone who will be killed or enslaved should you fail."

"No pressure there," he muttered so softly no one could hear it. To them he said, with a confidence he certainly didn't feel, the words they wanted to hear. "I promise you, I'll do my best. Dying isn't on my agenda for today."

While Donjonik didn't understand the last reference fully, he accepted the bravado for what it was, a pledge to either get the job done or die trying. The leader could ask no more than that.

By that time, Gerza-Set was clearly visible. In a strange way he did match the painting, but only vaguely. Artie, glasses pushed up to the bridge of his nose, had a good view of his opponent. The evil demon Gerza-Set was no demon at all but a skeletally thin man, loose limbed and sinuously lithe, giving the appearance of serpentine movement. His face was covered by a mask that resembled the one Michael Myers wore in the movies except it was ebony colored like the rest of his armament. The throat below was protected by segmented chitinous bands so that it was almost impossible to see any of the pallid skin beneath.

On his back was the expected hump, large and deforming, extending from the back of his neck to midway down his back. It was covered by a flowing black cloak. The gloves on his hands were supple, covered with dark plates. Without saying a word, he advanced on them until he and his party were within spitting distance.

Both sides glared at each other, sizing up their opponent's strengths and weaknesses before the battle was engaged. Gerza-Set stepped forward. From his hip, he drew out a long wand which appeared to be attached to his hip by a flexible tube of some kind.

"A hose?" Artie wondered. "A nozzle and a hose? Oh my God, oh my God!" he hollered. "Everyone get back, now! Back!"

No one moved. On either side. Except for the boney black figure. Artie could almost feel the smile emanating from behind the mask. He backed up into several broad bodies. They wouldn't let him pass. With what little time left him, he ran to Donjonik.

"We have to retreat. This isn't magic. It's death in a can!" he yelled at this stalwart fighter. Even as he was speaking, a tongue of flame shot out from the device in Gerza-Set's hands. Artie froze, paralyzed with indecision as several of Donjonik's crew screamed and fled with their clothing ablaze.

Once more Artie rounded on the leader, hands raised, palms up, fingers curled. "It's not magic I tell you. That hump, it's really cylinders filled with a type of petrol mixed with fuel thickeners and propelled by nitrogen gas." He thumped the man hard in the chest with a gloved fist to capture his full attention. "That's not some strange power he has, it's a flame thrower, crude but effective. Don't you get it? He's using technology. Technology," Artie repeated for emphasis, "Not mysterious forces."

"I care not the source of his power, Artie Nielsen," the warrior replied. "I only care about you stopping him. If he is defeated, the others will lose heart and turn tail."

"You hope," murmured Artie doubtfully. But what did he know. This was primitive fighting mixed with primitive superstitions and perhaps the defeat of the snakelike man would cause panic in their opponents.

"He's clearly overconfident," Artie observed. "He thinks his little gizmo is equal to all your men. He kills as many of us as he can and then have his men destroy the rest of you as you flee."

"We will not run," Brogan assured him.

"Then he will decimate your numbers by fire, and once seriously outnumbered, his twenty men will be able to handle the rest."

"You have no faith in us," the warrior observed dryly.

Artie snorted and the sound surprised him. "The odds were the same as yesterday, and you ended up in the forest to save your lives."

Every muscle in Donjonik's body tensed. Clearly, he didn't like having that fact pointed out to him.

Sarcasm crept into the huge fighter's voice. "So what do _you_ suggest, oh most brilliant and fiercest of warriors?"

"Cut it out!" Artie griped. "I'm serious. Can't you see what's going on here? We're fighting flesh and blood helped along by science. We just have to damage the fuel pack he wears on his back and the flame thrower will cease to function."

"Which means getting behind him."

"Precisely. Or slashing the hose. Whichever is easiest."

Donjonik bellowed out several names and ordered them to circle and attack from the left. At the same time, he ordered another group to circle around to the right. He and Artie's personal guard stayed in the center. Shields were deployed by all who had them. They all charged at once.

Gerza-Set hesitated for a second. He wasn't sure what direction to spray first. He chose the closest warriors on his right. A few were near enough to feel the flames bite at the skin. Several went down with their furs on fire. Their screams tore through the air. He swung the nozzle around, released a blast at the group in front of him, and kept swinging toward the opposite side.

Shield held high, Brogan raced in. Artie felt Donjonik's meaty hand snag his fur to propel him forward but he was now fighting an enemy and an object he understood and he went willingly. Adrenalin surged through his veins, heat flooded his body, his pulse pounded with an unfamiliar lust to kill the man opposite him. Part of him wondered how much the sword and helmet were manipulating his emotions but he was beyond caring about getting an answer.

A battle cry, every bit as wild as Donjonik's, exploded from his throat and, in the wake of the powerful warrior, he hurtled toward the tall black-clad figure. A blast of orange flame sliced through the air toward them. Donjonik's shield deflected some of it, but not all and the leader's yell of challenge changed to one of pain as the skin on his thigh was seared. He stumbled only a few feet from Gerza-Set. The nozzle swept up again as Artie advanced but before those boney fingers could pull the trigger, Nielsen went airborne. He scaled the back of Donjonik like a quarterback running over the top of his center into the end zone. Only this wasn't for a six lousy points. This was for the entire game.

When Artie's feet hit ground again, he was behind the man with the flame-thrower. Those charged with protecting Gerza-Set were startled to see this short man in their midst but they were trained and possessed years of experience.

The two men nearest Artie slashed out with their weapons. Artie's artifact-influenced mind and body hacked at them. He whirled and pivoted, danced and parried. His blade moved in wide arcs one second and short thrusts the next. The two men nearest him went down. Somehow, the sword darted up again to block something coming at him from just within his peripheral vision. A man screamed, his hand still holding the blade, flying off to the right. Blood splattered everything. Artie tried to turn, to do what he'd been sent to do in the first place but others pressed in on him. There was no way he could keep this up, guided by a magical sword or not.

His mind was flooded with plans and imagery of what to do and how best to do it. Like a chess game, he saw their moves in advance and was there to block most of them. If their blows were hitting him, he was too pumped up to notice.

More screams sounded to his left along with grunts and groans and the pounding of metal on metal. Dust and shredded grasses flew up from beneath their feet. The coppery smell of blood tainted the air. Their armor grew heavier. The heat of battle increased the heat of their bodies. Sweat flew everywhere.

The muscles in Artie's arms and shoulders were soon screaming in agony. His body ached all over but still he swung that sword with every ounce of strength he had. He heard Brogan's deep voice calling him. He ignored it, too afraid to take his eyes off the glinting and flashing blades near him.

A fist curled into the furs on his shoulder. "If you do not do it now, you never will," Donjonik told him. "I will keep them busy."

Spinning around on unsteady feet, Artie saw his quarry a few feet ahead of him, back turned. Clearly the man trusted his fighters to guard his back. What he didn't know is that only one remained. That man slashed at Artie, who blocked it and swung low, taking the man's leg out below the knee. Screaming, he fell.

Flipping the blade in his sweaty hands, Artie stabbed down between the cylinders containing flammable liquid and propellant, driving it in so hard that it pierced right through diamond-hard armor, and straight into Gerza-Set's heart.

With a hiss and a surprised grunt, the skeletal leader of these fighters fell to his knees. A second later he was face down in the dirt and blood, motionless, the victim of two conjoined artifacts that had wanted his life for reasons of their own.

As Donjonik had predicted, the other fighters broke ranks when their leader fell. Their shouts warned everyone else that defeat was at hand. Mass panic caused everyone else in Gerza-Set's small army to flee as fast as their feet could carry them.

The blood boiling in Artie's veins told him to keep after them, to take down each and every one until no one was left but he fought the feeling. It was the combination of the artifacts affecting him. He knew it despite the bloodthirsty fog clouding his thoughts. And so, reluctantly, he let the crimson-stained sword drop to the ground at his feet.


	6. Chapter 6

**oooooooooooooo**

**CHAPTER 6**

**oooooooooooooo**

Although it felt like the battle had raged for an hour, Artie realized only a few minutes had passed. He surveyed the carnage around him. Burned or bloodied bodies were scattered around. Several of their fighters had already run to the encampment, collected everything of value and set fire to the rest.

Without the sword in his hand, Artie felt the odd buzzing in his mind slowly dissipate. His fingers itched to pick it up again but he resisted the urge. There were no enemies left to chase down. The skirmish was over although he wondered just how effective killing Gerza-Set would be in the long run. If someone had made the flame-thrower then surely another one could be made and strapped to a willing fighter. But Artie didn't have the heart to say as much. He was exhausted and sore and he just wanted to go home.

Using a dead man's shirt, he finally clasped the grip of the sword. Another shirt wiped it clean. Making sure his skin didn't come in contact with any of it he slid the sword back into its protective sheathing and sighed wearily. Then he selected a cleaner section of that same cloth and wiped the red splattered droplets off his glasses.

The helmet he left on but only because he needed it for translation purposes. If he'd been given the choice, he would have ripped it off because he now knew the truth of them. In times of imminent danger these two artifacts clearly joined powers and howled for blood. And it was insatiable in that quest.

"Donjonik!" a voice hollered from a lone warrior who'd been left behind to warn them of approaching danger. He raced up to them, panting from the effort. "Something strange has happened!"

"Out with it!" the leader prompted when the man was a bit too slow in speaking.

"I'm not sure what to call it. A giant light, back in the field we passed. Like a huge gem. But big enough to encompass a man."

Artie rounded on him. "Is it a doorway? Can you tell?"

The warrior looked at him as if surprised to see him alive. "Indeed, although we'd have to hunch for it to cover us."

Before they could say a word, Artie was off and running as if his very life depended on it, which, in his case, might well have been true. These people would have accepted him openly and fully but he knew he never wanted to be in another battle like that one. And certainly that would happen if he was trapped here.

He didn't bother to waste time shedding his clothing or armor. Arms pumping, legs churning up dirt and foliage, he hurtled toward the field with the portal and would have screamed with relief if his lungs had held enough air for it. Regardless of whether he made it there on his own two feet or crawled the rest of the distance, one way or another he was going to get home.

Booted feet were still pounding as he neared the glittering doorway. With a last desperate burst of energy, he threw his entire body, head first into the portal. First he felt its pull as it sucked him in but unlike the first time he had no intention of resisting. He embraced the sensation, glorying in the knowledge that he would get back to his nice 'safe' life.

'_Unless the artifacts bring you somewhere else_,' he mind screamed. He tensed but it was too late. He went through. And landed on a hard polished concrete floor. The chainmail covering his torso and chest provided no traction and he kept sliding until his helmeted head thumped into a metal rack.

Artie's hand rose to snag the helmet. "Jeez," he muttered as he pulled it off and let it thump to the floor with a loud clatter of metal. Aside from that hand, the rest of him just lay there, stretched out, arms and legs spread-eagled, chest heaving as he struggled to fill oxygen-starved lungs.

He stared up at the ceiling of the Warehouse and let its glorious sight wash over him. Home. Home.

"Arthur?" The emotionless voice penetrated his joy, dragging him, kicking and screaming, back into reality.

He closed his eyes, afraid to look at her. "Mrs. Frederic." He said the name slowly, with just the tiniest hint of distaste. She was here to ruin his joy. He knew it.

"Nice duds…dude," a smooth voice stated sarcastically. That would be Pete, who'd be teasing him over this for at least a month.

"Well, ya gotta give him credit for having sexy legs." That'd be Myka. He could imagine the laughter in her large green eyes.

And of course Claudia had to get in on this final indignity. "Maybe. But the whole bondage thing, including the leather panties, just isn't working for him, ya know?"

Embarrassment washed over on him and he did the only thing he could think of. He rolled over onto his stomach, which was foolish since the back view was no improvement.

"If one of you, _one of you_," he emphasized again for effect, "makes fun of my ass, I swear I'll put _all_ of you on inventory duty 24/7 for a month!"

"_All_ of us, Arthur?" That rich serene voice turned ominous. "Remember who you are speaking to."

Still face down, Artie turned his head so that one eye could focus on her. "Mrs. Frederic, I have just finished hacking and slashing my way through hordes of crazed barbarians in order to retrieve the second half of a bifurcated artifact and if I can survive that I can survive anything, including your displeasure. So yes, inventory for you too…Irene."

He closed his eyes for a second, waiting on her anger to fall upon him but when he looked up again, she had vanished.


End file.
